Fatal Legacy (23 page)

The Kemp residence was set back from a quiet wooded road on the outskirts of a village four miles from Harlden. Tall
wrought-iron
gates stood open at the bottom of a drive that curved away behind a glorious stand of beech and maple.

‘Looks like he’s done all right for himself.’

Nightingale nodded and said nothing, memories of her own home firmly pushed to a remote corner of her mind. There was little in them to be nostalgic about and enough legacy of unpleasantness for her to avoid them.

The drive curved through woodland, and as it thinned, a delightful Queen Anne house was revealed on a gentle rise of land.

‘Smaller than I thought it’d be after those gates.’ Cooper grinned.

‘But original,’ said Nightingale before she could stop herself.

‘What?’

‘It’s the real thing. It may not be big, but believe me, it’s worth a pretty penny.’

‘How can you tell?’

What to do? How to avoid the remarks that would reveal too much and unfairly mark her as an affected upper-class snob? She decided to lie.

‘We did a project at school. It’s one of those things like, I don’t know, recognising a real wood table from veneer. We were taught to look for that mellow richness in the bricks; the windows are just right, and the pitch of the roof – all the little details.’

‘Hmph.’ Cooper swung the car around in front of the house.

There was a bell pull to one side of the door, antique and
delicate. Cooper yanked it and Nightingale winced. Muriel Kemp recognised the sergeant at once and blanched.

‘Mrs Kemp?’

‘Yes.’ Her hand fluttered to her face and hovered near her open mouth.

What’s she so scared of? wondered Nightingale, and observed even more intently.

‘I’m DS Cooper, Harlden CID. Could we come in, please?’ He extended his warrant card for inspection, but she barely looked at it.

‘Yes, I remember you, but what’s it all about? Is Jeremy all right? I mean … Yes, of course, come in.’

She’s petrified, thought Nightingale.

‘Thank you. This is DC Nightingale, and, so far as I’m aware, Mr Kemp is fine. It’s you we want to see.’

Rapid blinking, a tremor in her hand as the door was closed behind them, then she rallied.

‘I’m not really sure I can help you, Sergeant. I suspect it’s my husband you need to talk to.’

‘No, it’s you.’

Again the hands gave her away as she led them into the drawing room. It was cold in here, and Nightingale watched with nostalgic amusement as their breath misted faintly in the chill, still air.

‘So, what do you want with me, Sergeant?’

‘As you know, we are investigating the sudden death of Graham Wainwright …’

Cooper’s voice droned on. He was giving the woman a neat précis of the case, but he wasn’t getting anywhere. Nightingale could see her regaining her strength and with it the anger to protest. Once she did that, they would have the devil of a job breaking her guard. She recognised this type of woman from her mother’s coffee mornings when she had been at home during those long, bleak school holidays.

Mrs Kemp was pleasant, kind, probably generous too, but something of a snob. She had ended up in a house and with a standard of living much better than she’d ever expected. Consequently she was bedevilled by doubts as to whether she deserved it, was living up to it and, above all, whether she had
the right style. Even her voice was uncertain, her accent modulating between perfectly well-spoken middle English and an attempt at what she clearly thought was county. It was sad, but it was also a weakness Nightingale could exploit. All she had to do was use what she thought of as her school voice, which was terribly, frightfully correct.

‘Mrs Kemp, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I have the most terrible headache and I wondered whether we might trouble you for some tea. Would it be an awful bother?’

Both Sergeant Cooper and Mrs Kemp’s jaws fell open at exactly the same time. Nightingale effected what she hoped was a brave little smile. Mrs Kemp reacted as if programmed to the request and left the room.

‘Trust me, sir,’ Nightingale said in her normal speaking voice. ‘We’ll get far more out of her my way.’

Cooper hesitated for a moment, trying to work out whether this young slip of a girl was cheeking him, but there was no trace of it. He nodded.

‘Do it your way, then, but you’d better make this work.’

She smiled at him and winked.

Mrs Kemp was back within minutes with a tray replete with silver tea set and delicate porcelain cups. There was milk and lemon and delicate shortbread biscuits that looked as if they were going to melt in the mouth. Nightingale suppressed a smile as she saw that there was honey too, in a little china pot next to the sugar lumps. Oh my, she thought, just like the old days.

‘How lovely,’ she blurted out. ‘And your tea pot is just like my dear mother’s.’

Mrs Kemp flushed and managed the ensuing tea ceremony with gentle confidence and obvious pleasure. There was a nasty moment when it looked as though Cooper was going to spread honey on his biscuits, but the consternation on the solicitor’s wife’s face reached even him, and the danger passed.

Nightingale was chatting happily with Mrs Kemp. It had started easily enough with the delicacy of the tea set and had moved on smoothly to the importance of maintaining certain standards, clearly a favourite topic at ‘The Maples’. Cooper’s muttered excuses as he slipped from the room were barely
noticed. As soon as he’d left, Nightingale changed tack.

‘I’m so glad he’s gone, Mrs Kemp. There’s something I wanted to raise with you, and it’s best done while we’re on our own.’

Mrs Kemp looked suitably alarmed, and her tea cup rattled in its saucer.

‘It’s about Mr Kemp and some of his activities over the past months.’

Mrs Kemp’s face was pale now, hard brown eyes staring fixedly at this charming young woman she’d considered briefly as a friend.

‘There are rumours … well, no, I’m afraid more than that … real stories about your husband and his—’

‘More tea, Constable Nightingale? Your cup’s empty.’

‘Thank you, no. As I was saying, we have been led to understand that your husband may be having an affair.’

Was that relief that showed for a moment then? How odd.

‘Who’s been saying such things?’ It sounded forced, this defiance, as if she was trying to say what would have been expected.

‘We’ve heard it from a number of sources, actually.’

There was a long pause, then Muriel Kemp placed her cup and saucer down emphatically.

‘Well, there’s no point denying it. Yes, Jeremy has had affairs, off and on throughout our marriage. Every now and then he makes an effort, but then he’ll fall for somebody new. I’m supposed not to know, of course – that keeps things civil – but he knows that I do really.’

‘And you don’t mind?’ Nightingale struggled to keep her tone one of polite inquiry.

‘I didn’t say that! It’s a matter of coping, that’s all. And he won’t leave me.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘Because he becomes frightened as soon as they fall for him and comes running home. And as for his latest attempt, she won’t have him, that’s why! Keeps egging him on and then going all coy. He thinks I don’t notice, but the whole golf club knows. Still, he’s nearly served his purpose now, and soon it’ll be over.’ Her voice was trembling despite her attempt at
nonchalance. It was clear to Nightingale that coping came at a very high price.

‘You make this latest attempt sound so … mercenary, so calculated.’

‘That’s because that’s exactly what it is – on her part, anyway, not his, of course. Poor fool.’

‘Who is she?’

Mrs Kemp looked at her in astonishment. ‘You mean you don’t
know
? You’re not serious!’

‘I’m new to the case. Please, it’ll save time.’

‘Sally Wainwright-Smith, of course. I thought your lot knew that.’

Nightingale made a neat note in her book and carried on.

‘You said your husband had nearly served his purpose. What did you mean?’

‘Did I say that? I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Mrs Kemp, you know you said it, and you implied that the flirtation was completely calculated on her part. Why?’

‘I’m an embittered, scorned woman, Constable. I’m entitled to my cynicism.’

‘And I’m a police officer investigating several murders who’s entitled to ask the question.’

Mrs Kemp looked shocked at the sudden sternness in Nightingale’s voice. Still she defied her.

‘I meant nothing.’ She was obviously lying, and what was more, she didn’t care that Nightingale knew she was. Even her conventionalism wouldn’t incline her to more honesty. Nightingale decided on shock tactics and backed her instinct.

‘Aren’t you worried for your husband’s safety; for your own?’

Mrs Kemp tried to keep her face blank, but the look of fear Nightingale had seen as she had answered the door was back in her eyes. She pushed her point.

‘Three people connected with Wainwright’s are dead so far this year – two murdered, one suspicious.’

‘You’re not suggesting that … My God!’ She covered her mouth in horror. ‘My God!’ she repeated, and looked at Nightingale with a renewed respect. She was silent for a long moment, twisting her napkin into a crumpled ball. Then she nodded to herself.

‘All right. I’ll tell you.’ She took a sip of tea and almost dropped her saucer. ‘The rumour is that Sally started having an affair with Alan Wainwright about three months before he died. Alan never liked her husband, Alexander, and made him the butt of Wainwright Enterprises’ jokes. He gave him the worst jobs, and the more diligent he was, the more Alan ridiculed him.

‘Alexander had met Sally shortly after his parents died earlier this year, and she immediately started to work to reduce Alan’s hatred of Alexander. It brought her into contact with Jeremy, and she asked for his help in changing Alan’s attitude.

‘It was hard work, but Jeremy was so besotted with Sally that he devoted himself to her cause. Even when the rumours started that she and Alan were having an affair, he refused to believe it and went on helping her.’

‘Did Sally really think that an affair would make Alan Wainwright change his will?’

‘She was convinced of it, I’m sure. Jeremy used to tell me that they were increasingly confident that Alan was going to soften towards Alexander, although even he was shocked that he bequeathed them half his fortune.’

‘Surely it would have been easier for Sally just to seduce and marry Alan and not bother with Alexander?’

Muriel Kemp gave Nightingale an appraising glance.

‘Alan was infertile – he had a virus five years ago – and he was desperate for a Wainwright heir. Graham had told him years ago that he would never have children of his own. It was one of his more cruel taunts. He said he couldn’t bear the thought of bringing children into this world.’

‘And his father believed him?’

‘Why not? Graham was well into his forties, and not one of his hundreds of lady friends ever came knocking at the Hall door claiming patrimony. Julia, Alan’s sister, had only produced girls, and there was no way Alan would consider leaving his estate to a
step
son. He wanted family blood in the veins of his heir, male blood; that left only Alexander.’

‘So Sally was a brood mare! Despite their affair, you’re telling me that Alan would have been happy to see her bear Alexander’s child!’

‘More than happy, ecstatic. He told Jeremy so when he changed his will in favour of them both. He said that Sally had promised to bear him a great-nephew.’

‘So the inheritance was a bribe for her to have Alex’s baby?’

‘I’m sure of it; so’s Jeremy.’

‘Why did your husband think he had any chance with Sally, then?’

‘Another good question, Constable. It seems unbelievable to you and me, but we’re
women
. For a man, particularly a
hot-blooded
man like Jeremy, it’s completely different. Sally could make him believe anything!’

‘I need to corroborate this, Mrs Kemp. Can you tell me how I might do that?’

Muriel Kemp grinned with such malice that Nightingale shivered.

‘You should talk to Mrs Willett, Alan’s old housekeeper. If you think I’m bitter, you wait until you speak to her.’

‘Get anything?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Go on then.’ Cooper slammed the driver’s door shut and looked at Nightingale expectantly.

‘I’ll tell you on the way; we’re being watched.’ Sure enough, Mrs Kemp had pulled back the delicate lace that screened the front landing window and was staring out. Nightingale started talking as the car crunched across the gravel. She was still explaining what she’d learnt as they passed through the gates.

‘I think we should go and visit Alan Wainwright’s
housekeeper
.’

‘Won’t she be on Inspector Blite’s interview list, sir? His team was handling everything to do with the Hall.’

‘Yes, but he’ll have his work cut out questioning Kemp about Sally’s discovery of the body, and then he’ll need to go straight to the Hall. He’ll welcome some help. Trust me, he always does!’ Cooper glanced at his watch: nearly eleven o’clock. ‘OK. Let’s give him a call – see if he minds.’

Blite was only too pleased with the offer. His team were working flat out to complete their search of the Hall’s
outbuildings
and grounds, and were at least a day away from talking to Mr and Mrs Willett.

Cooper and Nightingale found the Willetts in a fifth-floor council flat in a neighbouring town. The lift was out of order and the concrete stairs were damp and smelly. On their floor some attempts had been made to smarten the place up a little, and the graffiti was almost decorative, perhaps in response. The door to the Willetts’ flat was painted a cheerful blue; the brass heart-shaped door knocker glowed softly in the dimly lit corridor.

Both Joe and Millie Willett were at home. They welcomed the two police officers into their tiny sitting room without ceremony and turned off the television. Millie went to make some tea, leaving the other three to find small talk among the various conversation pieces that had been squeezed into every corner.